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  The sudden question caught her by surprise. She’d thought she had distracted him from the issue of her would-be murderers, but his intense manner told her he wasn’t amenable to distraction. She was going to have to make up a story that was at least partly true, in hope of convincing him that all of it was the truth. And she couldn’t say anything that might make him decide to remain in Scotland. Quentin must leave the border for English territory as quickly as possible. It was her duty to speed him on his way to the place where, surely, her brothers could no longer threaten his life.

  “Yes,” she said. “It was my brothers.”

  “Why?” Quentin demanded.

  “It’s just a family quarrel.”

  “A quarrel serious enough to make men kill their own sister?” He sounded as if he didn’t believe her.

  “As I said, they think I’m dead, so I’m safe now. It’s Janet I’m worried about.”

  “Janet?”

  “My younger sister. She’s in school at Abercorn Abbey. Murdoch wants to remove her from the school and marry her off to one of his friends, a brutal man. Janet is terrified of her proposed bridegroom, and Gillemore always sides with Murdoch, so poor Janet is helpless against their scheme.”

  “Why did they decide to kill you?” His gaze was so piercing that Fionna feared he didn’t believe any of her story, though most of what she’d told him so far was true.

  “They discovered my plan to reach Janet before they did. I was going to ride to Abercorn and take her away to – to England,” Fionna ended with a lie.

  “Indeed? You’d spirit your beloved sister off to a land ruled by the same Normans whom you dislike?”

  “I didn’t say I dislike Normans, only that my brothers do. But now I am free to carry out my plan to save Janet without interference.”

  “Do you think so?” He regarded her as if she possessed no wits at all. “How will you travel, when you have no horse? How will you eat without coins to buy food? Where will you sleep at night? And how in the name of all the saints do you imagine a young woman can ride alone through these lawless borderlands without being captured and raped, or murdered? You call that a plan? I call it madness.”

  With fists planted on his hips he loomed above her, tall and muscular and completely sure of himself, easily the most intimidating man Fionna had ever met, more frightening in his quiet intensity than both of her noisy brothers together. She trembled before him.

  “I have to save Janet!” she cried, not lying now, frantic for her sister’s sake.

  “Then let me help,” he said.

  “Why would a Norman help me?”

  Quentin shook his head, asking himself the same question. She was remarkably appealing, with her bare shoulders showing pale and slim above the rough wool blanket and her dark, reddish-brown hair curling in long ringlets around her face. Her emotional distress had put color into her cheeks and a determined sparkle into her bright blue eyes. Fionna of Dungalash was not beautiful, but she was intriguing and intelligent.

  Her voice was wonderful to hear, low-pitched and with only a faint accent. Quentin had never liked women whose voices were high and shrill, attacking a man’s ears and causing headaches. Like his wife’s voice. Quentin cut off that unhappy memory the instant it arose. He did not want to think about his late wife, or about the heiress King Henry had mentioned as a possible reward upon successful completion of his mission to Edinburgh. He would far rather gaze at Fionna.

  She possessed the most perfect skin he had ever seen or touched, and her recuperative powers were remarkable. Any other noblewoman he knew would have lain in bed for days, quaking and weeping after the kind of treatment Fionna had endured. The healthy young woman in his bed appeared to be fully recovered and prepared to set out at once to rescue her sister.

  It was an admirable quest – and it was a pity she was lying to him.

  Quentin was certain at least part of her story was false. In any land it was easy enough to force a girl to wed the man her male kin chose for her. There was no reason to kill a sister who objected, a fact that meant Fionna was deliberately misleading him about her brothers’ motives. The more falsehoods the lady uttered, the more interesting she became – and the more firmly Quentin resolved to discover what lay behind her soft-voiced deception. But he’d have to do so without compromising the assignment that had originally brought him to Scotland and was presently sending him back to England in some haste.

  “Perhaps I enjoy making plans,” he said, offering a partial truth in return for her lies. “In the last few moments, while you have been revealing selected portions of your story, I have conceived a far better scheme than yours. It is more likely to succeed, too. Would you like to hear it?”

  She regarded him with an expression that suggested she was afraid. Of him? Why should she fear him, when he had kept her alive?

  “How do I know I can trust you?” she asked.

  “You don’t,” he said. “You can only be certain the scheme you have decided on has no chance of succeeding. My idea, on the other hand, has all the advantages inherent in a large band of well-armed and dedicated warriors.”

  “Very well, I am willing to listen,” she said. “However, I, not you, will decide whether or not we will follow your plan.”

  She’d follow it. He wasn’t going to give her a chance to reject his idea. For the moment, he was content to test her reaction.

  “I want you to travel to England with me, under my protection,” he began, and held up a hand to stop the protest she was clearly about to launch. “After last night I’m not certain you are fit to travel, but travel you will, for I cannot in good conscience leave you behind to deal with your brothers and I must return to England at once.”

  From the look on her face Quentin concluded that she was relieved about something, but was not in complete agreement with his decision to take her along with him. In case she was worried about her own safety while among strangers, he hastened to reassure her.

  “No one will harm you while you are with me and my companions. Since King Henry is presently busy in Normandy, the preliminary report on my discussions with King Alexander is to be made to Royce, the baron of Wortham. Royce is an old friend of mine, a man who has both the resources, and the wits, to devise a scheme to free Janet and get her safely out of Scotland.”

  “I don’t have time to travel to England and back again,” Fionna objected. “My brothers could be on their way to Abercorn at this moment. If Janet tries to refuse to marry Murdoch’s friend, they won’t hesitate to stoop to violent abduction and forcible marriage.”

  “If you wish, I can send an urgent message to King Alexander, asking him to take your sister into custody until the question of her marriage can be resolved.” Quentin expected her to reject the offer. She didn’t disappoint him.

  “No! Don’t do that. You don’t understand. After what my brothers tried to do to me, can you doubt they’ll kill Janet if anyone crosses their will?”

  “What, and lose their opportunity to contract an advantageous marriage? My lady, you are not making sense.”

  After years of secret missions undertaken at the behest of his king, Quentin’s instincts were honed to the sharpness of a fine steel blade. Those instincts warned him now that he was lacking a vital piece of information, perhaps several pieces. He frowned at Fionna, trying to think how to make her tell him whatever it was he needed to know.

  “Please, I beg you, leave it alone.” Fionna covered her face with both hands. “Don’t interfere. Hurry back to England, where you’ll be safe. Forget about me.”

  She was genuinely worried about Janet. He could see her fear in her posture and hear it in her strained voice. Still, he sensed there was something else, something she was bent upon hiding from him.

  “From what you say, if I do leave this alone, you and your sister are both in mortal danger.”

  Her only response to his statement of obvious truth was a quick shake of her head. Quentin regarded her thoughtfully, wondering
if it was merely a slip of her tongue that declared he’d be safe in England, which suggested he wasn’t safe while he remained in Scotland. Or was the remark a deliberate ploy? He wished he knew her better, so he could more accurately judge her sympathies and her intentions. As matters stood, he dared not trust her. But neither could he leave her to the fate that awaited her in Scotland if her brothers got hold of her again. The fact that it would please him to keep Fionna near was irrelevant.

  “I cannot, and will not, allow you to travel alone to Abercorn,” he told her firmly. “You are going to Wortham with me. Once there, you may tell your story to Royce and, together, the three of us will work out a plan to retrieve your sister.”

  “Am I a prisoner, then?”

  “Nothing quite so severe. But I will have your word of honor that you won’t leave my party until we reach Wortham.” He watched her for a moment, noting her slumped shoulders and bowed head, and he found himself doubting that evidence of female meekness. Whatever else Fionna of Dungalash was, she was not meek.

  “I don’t have a choice, do I?” She spoke so softly that Quentin was forced to bend closer to hear her. “As you have pointed out, I have no horse, no supplies, no funds, and if you don’t help me, no one else will. All right, then. I will ride with you and your men. Now, will you kindly give me my clothes?”

  “Certainly. I’ll have Braedon bring them to you at once.”

  Quentin wasn’t fooled by her apparent acquiescence. Nor did he fail to notice that she had neglected to give her word of honor not to try to escape.

  Chapter 4

  It was still early morning when Quentin’s party assembled by the gate of Duncaron. When a few questions were asked about the unexpected appearance of a woman amongst what was supposed to be a troop of knights and men-at-arms, Quentin offered only a terse response that the lady was traveling with him, and he did not mention her by name. Fionna was relieved when not one of Quentin’s men made any comment on her presence. The master of Duncaron barely glanced in her direction before he bid farewell to the Norman visitors.

  Fionna kept her head down, with the hood of the cloak Quentin had lent to her pulled up to hide her face, lest anyone should recognize her. She didn’t think Murdoch and Gillemore had any connection with Duncaron, but she didn’t want to risk being seen. She was sure her best chance to rescue Janet lay in her brothers’ continuing belief that she was dead.

  “At this time of year the hours of daylight grow ever shorter,” Quentin told her, breaking into her troubled thoughts, “and we are long overdue at Wortham Castle. We will ride from sunrise until dark every day for at least a week, longer if the weather turns bad. I hope you are used to hard riding.”

  “I will not delay you,” she replied with some asperity. “I am no delicate court lady.”

  “No one who has met you could imagine you are.” He said it as if he was paying a compliment, but the stern look on his face suggested to Fionna that he meant the remark as criticism. “Shall I help you to mount?”

  “I need no help from you.” She knew she was being disagreeable, but she couldn’t stop herself. She felt torn in two by conflicting obligations. She longed to rush directly to Abercorn and Janet, but her duty to protect Quentin from her brothers by not interfering with his immediate departure from Scotland was compelling her to ride in the opposite direction from where she wanted to go.

  She preferred not to look too closely at the effect Quentin was having on her emotions, or to recall that he had held and warmed her for most of the night, while she lay naked and unconscious in his arms. She told herself Quentin of Alney was an irritating, arrogant man. The sooner she was quit of him the happier she would be.

  She hadn’t realized how weakened she was by her recent violent experiences. Getting into the saddle was far more difficult than she expected. Refusing to ask for assistance after rejecting Quentin’s offer, she pressed her lips together and called on every bit of strength left to her as she levered herself upward. Once she was in the saddle she closed her eyes, fighting dizziness and all too aware that Quentin was watching her. Unwilling to let him see how ill she felt, she made herself look at him while she drew her mouth into an approximation of a smile.

  “I told you I didn’t need help,” she said between gritted teeth.

  “Well done, my lady. You are courageous, I’ll grant you that much. I only wish you were as wise as you are brave.”

  Before she could voice the fiery retort that rose to her lips, Quentin turned on his heel and headed for his own horse. It was just as well; with his back turned he couldn’t see the sudden tears on her cheek. Quickly, before he could glimpse any sign of weakness in her, she wiped away the telltale moisture.

  A few moments later they were on the road. As soon as they were out of sight of Duncaron, Fionna pushed back the hood of Quentin’s heavy, dark green cloak, which she was wearing over her tattered and still slightly damp gown. Not one piece of her clothing was completely dry. Her linen shift and her stockings felt clammy against her skin, and her well-worn shoes were stiff and uncomfortable. Since she possessed no other garments that she could change into, she made no complaint, though she did offer up a brief prayer for heavenly protection against the ague.

  To her relief, Quentin rode at the head of his band of men, leaving Fionna to follow. Sir Cadwallon and Braedon the squire were riding on either side of her. She suspected their close attendance was deliberate, that Quentin had ordered them to guard her.

  She tried her best to ignore Braedon. The twinkle of amusement in his deep blue eyes early that morning when he’d brought her clothing to her had offended her. She had been painfully aware of the warmth that doubtless stained her cheeks bright red as she seized her gown from him, and she couldn’t forget that he had seen her undressed. Quentin had been serious about the way they’d found and cared for her, but Braedon seemed to think it was funny.

  Fionna was finding Sir Cadwallon’s company preferable to that of the jaunty squire. Cadwallon was a huge, brawny man, with brown hair and eyes and a respectful, gentle manner that soothed her jumpy nerves. With little probing from her he spoke freely and with warm affection about his Welsh mother, his little sister, and his older brother, a minor baron who had inherited their Norman father’s lands located between Wales and England.

  “As the younger son, I faced a poor future if I stayed at home,” Cadwallon explained. “I longed for more than a simple knighthood, so I’ve taken service with King Henry. He has a reputation for generosity toward his household knights. I hope to earn land of my own, and a title from him.”

  “Was it royal generosity that ordered you to the wilds of Scotland?” Fionna asked, flashing a smile at him because she liked him.

  “I believe King Henry thought my strong sword arm would be of use to Quentin,” Cadwallon said. “Unfortunately, there has been no fighting for me to do. It’s too bad; I’d enjoy a bit of exercise. I always sleep better after a battle.”

  Despite this hint of bloodthirstiness, Fionna didn’t find Cadwallon the least bit intimidating. He wasn’t at all like Quentin, who sat proudly upon his huge grey stallion and never looked her way.

  She was glad Quentin wasn’t paying attention to her, and she hoped her rudeness about refusing his help to mount would keep him at a distance. His disinterest would make it easier for her to proceed with her plan to escape from him.

  She had been shocked to learn how long the journey to Wortham would take. Once she understood the time involved, Fionna decided not to depend on Quentin’s offer to ask his friend to rescue Janet. Help from Wortham would take a month or more and Janet’s plight required prompt remedy. Fionna would rescue Janet herself, as she had originally planned. She would set out for Abercorn just as soon as Quentin was safely on English soil. She was already considering just how to accomplish the rescue.

  She didn’t know where Quentin had acquired the horse she was riding, and she didn’t care. What mattered to her was the animal’s sturdy form, which suggested it w
ouldn’t give out if she rode it hard after she finally got away from Quentin. Better yet, she thought the horse could easily carry two slender women.

  She was riding astride, as she preferred to do, and while she owned no saddlebags to fill with food or personal items as the others did, there was a blanket rolled up and fastened behind her saddle. Into the folds of the blanket she had tucked a chunk of bread she’d kept from her morning meal. She planned to pretend to have a ravenous appetite, and she’d save a little from each meal over the next day or two, until she had collected enough provisions to sustain her during the ride to Abercorn.

  She hoped to use the time before she made her escape to regain the strength she had lost in her struggle with Liddel Water, but during that first morning of the journey she discovered she was much weaker than she thought. She was surprised by how easily she tired, so she was glad when Quentin called a halt at noon.

  “You will want to get off your horse and walk for a while,” Braedon said, reaching up to help her dismount.

  “I can do it myself,” she informed him. The last thing she wanted was to have the squire touch her. From the curve of his mouth and the twinkle in his deep blue eyes, Fionna assumed he was recalling the sight of her unclothed body with fiendish glee.

  In truth, she could have used his assistance. It was all she could do to swing her leg up and over the horse’s back and then drop to the ground without falling. Her leg muscles ached, her head ached, and her chest ached, too, whenever she coughed, which she did far too often.

  She was hanging onto the saddle strap, hoping she’d regain her balance before she fainted, when a pair of strong male hands clasped her waist, steadying her. Forgetting her weakness in a burst of anger, Fionna whirled around with one hand raised in preparation to strike.

  “I told you, I am perfectly capable of dismounting on my own!” she exclaimed, then stopped short.

  It wasn’t Braedon who held her, but Quentin. He dropped his hands and took a step backward, frowning at her.